


Ceremonials

by mudkippy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry virgin Stannis, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Gen, Happy Ending, No Sex, No Smut, No Spoilers, Nobody is Dead, Past Tense, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-A Song of Ice and Fire, Sex demonstration with a peach, Stannis being his usual charming self, Teeth grinding, Weddings, implied ace!stannis, lowkey stannis/davos, not yet anyway, of any kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkippy/pseuds/mudkippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The addressed is henceforth cordially invited to the wedding of Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone and of Selyse Florent of Brightwater Keep. The wedding shall commence at Storm's End upon the two-year anniversary of its liberation.</p>
<p>Guests are required to submit their yeas or nays by raven no later than three weeks hence from the date they received this missive, and to enclose the size of their accompanying household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peaches

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant, follows the _A Song of Ice and Fire_ timeline, the whole nine yards. Just sit back and enjoy wedding shenanigans ft. Pissed and Vengeful Stannis, Still a Peasant Davos, Well-intentioned But Ridiculous Robert, and Too Old for This Shit Jon Arryn.

The last time Stannis had seen Redwyne dromonds in Shipbreaker Bay and Tyrell levies surrounding Storm’s End, they had been foes. Yet, two years later, the same assemblage had gathered at the Baratheon castle as friends.

Stannis was not petty enough to deny Robert’s ability to turn enemies to allies, but that did not mean he had to like it. Robert was too forgiving by half. Peace did not mean these once-rebellious houses ought to feel safe — and _happy!_ — coming to the home of the king they had once sought to defeat.

Stannis remembered prowling these walls for nigh on a year with hunger gnawing at his gut, staring out at the same banners that met his eyes this morning. Robert had told him to hold Storm’s End, and Stannis had obeyed. He had not done it with expectations in mind, but surely he could have taken justice as a given. Not so. Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne would not only be present at Stannis’ wedding, they would be considered _guests of honor_.

Stannis’ lip curled just to think of it.

He finished his predawn tour of Storm’s End and headed to the familiar walls of the inner keep, where he would not need to see the camps of the unfaithful.

But even being within Storm’s End irked him. Stannis had been a man grown at war’s end and he had demonstrated his ability to govern and defend the Stormlands seven times over. Yet the castle and its lands had passed to Renly, a boy of nine, and Stannis had been shunted off to remote Dragonstone.

Although it was very like Robert to forget anyone except those who had done the quick and decisive deeds he was himself so fond of performing and rewarding others for. Eddard Stark had been the one to break the siege and he had returned home with all but a crown of his own.

Stannis could not see the grey direwolf amongst the hundreds of other banners fluttering in the cool sea breeze. He frowned. It was unlike Robert not to invite his foster brother. The responsibility of the wedding preparations might have belonged to Lord Alester and his wife, but a king’s input could never be ignored. Thus, the presence of the Tyrells.

“Lord Stannis?” his brother’s servant asked. Ser Farwain had been in House Baratheon’s service for as long as Stannis could remember, but he was no longer Stannis’ man. He was Renly’s. Renly, the darling of his minders. Renly, Robert’s mirror image. Renly, the next Lord of Storm’s End. Renly, Renly, _Renly_. Stannis ground his teeth.

“What is it, Ser Farwain?”

“His Grace has sent for you, my lord,” Ser Farwain replied. His voice betrayed no familiarity.

Stannis debated not going, but a quick glance at the sun changed his mind. It was only a few hours before noon. Robert would have arisen an hour ago. He could not be drunk yet.

* * *

Stannis was wrong on both accounts. The king had been up since dawn, sparring with men who had been his enemies, including Silveraxe Fell and Ser Raymun Darry. After their bout, the king had declared a wine break that had not relented by the time Stannis arrived.

“Your Grace,” Stannis said.

Robert looked away from his wine cup long enough to acknowledge his presence. Then he returned his attention to Silveraxe. “Then the poxy wench lifted up her skirt and …”

Stannis’ disapproval was shared by Ser Barristan Selmy. The elderly Kingsguard — another traitor; why would Robert ever want to be guarded by a Targaryen loyalist was beyond Stannis — was staring off at a distant point. The other Kingsguard were not as circumspect in their boredom. Meryn Trant’s heavy eyelids had nearly drifted shut and the Kingslayer was scrupulously examining his fingernails.

Robert’s ribald tale wound to a merciful end, with the king nearly doubled over in mirth, red-faced and nearly weeping. Silveraxe added a suggestive comment and Robert laughed so hard that he whipped his cup through the air, spraying Stannis with Dornish red.

“Ah, why the sour face, Stannis?” Silveraxe asked. “Have you seen the Florent girl yet?”

“No,” Stannis replied curtly, wiping the wine from his cheeks.

Robert and his friends broke into a storm of laughter.

“It’s for the better,” Gerion Lannister said. “You can tell she’s a Florent. Is her mother a Frey?”

“You’d have to _pay_ me to exercise the lord’s right on her,” Silveraxe muttered.

Robert waved his hands and the knights and lords quieted instantly. “Tell me, little brother: have you ever fucked a woman?”

Stannis ground his teeth. If this was what Robert had summoned him for—

“He hasn’t,” said Raymun Darry gleefully.

Robert grunted. “No surprise there. Tell me, Stannis, is it your duty to remain a bloody maid?”

“It is my _duty_ to wed and provide legitimate heirs to Dragonstone, Your Grace,” Stannis said.

Raymun Darry leaned forward. “So you don’t know where to put it?”

“Watch your tongue, ser,” Stannis snapped. He would not openly oppose his king, but Lord Darry was fair game. “I have heard your family hides Targaryen banners in its vaults and I have a mind to see if it is true.”

Ser Raymun drew his sword and took a wobbly step forward. “I’ll fight you for that.”

Robert yanked him back into his seat. “Don’t be a cunt, Stannis.” He shoved Silveraxe off the bench to his left and patted the seat. “Come here.”

“Your Grace, I have matters to attend within Storm’s End,” Stannis replied.

“Your king and elder brother just told you to sit.” He finished off his ale horn. “Do your fucking duty and sit.”

Stannis took Silveraxe’s place, keeping his weight on his feet so he could spring up at any moment. 

Robert put his hand out and the servant standing behind him handed him a ripe peach. “Fresh out of the Reach.” He squeezed it lightly. “Just like your wife.”

His drinking companions guffawed raucously.

The king took out his hunting knife and took a clumsy slice out of it. He made a few more cuts and showed Stannis the mutilated peach. “See this?”

Stannis focused on Robert’s hand, glistening with the sweet juice, rather than the fruit itself. “I see it.”

“This peach is Selyse Florent’s cunt.” 

“It won’t be that sweet,” Gerion Lannister said. “Did the Tyrells bring up any fish?”

The men suggested a few other foods more suitable for the demonstration and Stannis’ burgeoning desire to commit regicide caused his eyes to wander the grassy fields beyond, searching for any reason to depart. They remained depressingly empty of so much as a butterfly.

Robert punched his shoulder with almost enough force to knock him off the bench. “Pay attention! I’m doing you a bloody favor. There’re two holes near a woman’s cunt, here—” Stannis glanced slightly off to the side as Robert stabbed the peach with his knife “—and here.” He stabbed the peach again. “The first one gives you brats. The second one gives you—”

“An angry vixen,” said Silveraxe Fell, nodding as if he had imparted some sage advice.

“Thank you for informing me, Your Grace.” Stannis stood up and turned to go, but Robert yanked him down again. 

“I’m not done yet. Then, if—”

Jon Arryn appeared at Stannis’ elbow and coughed politely. “A word, my lord?”

Stannis could have embraced the man. “Of course.” He bowed to Robert and barely stopped himself from sprinting away. “My lord Hand?”

Lord Arryn was one of the few reasons Westeros was still in one piece. Anyone with a working eye could see Robert was better suited for earning victory than enjoying the spoils, whereas the older Lord Arryn was much the opposite. While Robert threw a party, Arryn would not be far behind, using the proximity to repair old enmities or forge new alliances. He was the only lord in the small council that Stannis did not despise.

“Mace Tyrell has heard he will be seated farther away from the king than Alester Florent and, as is, Lord Tyrell and Lord Florent are currently sitting together,” Jon Arryn said. “Lord Tyrell demands to be closer to the king and away from Lord Florent. They had words over it this morning in the courtyard.”

“For what?” Stannis asked bitterly. “When Robert raised his banners, Mace Tyrell sided with the Mad King. He is lucky to be asking for a place at the table instead of begging for mercy at the noose.”

“Nevertheless, Mace Tyrell is alive and he is asking for a different place at the table,” Jon Arryn said. “This is not a time to be dwelling on past grievances, my lord.”

“Is that not what this wedding is about? Three thousand swords and a threat to Highgarden?”

That was what Selyse Florent’s maidenhead would buy. House Tyrell had been a loyalist house and, five years later, their allegiance was tenuous at best. The Florents claimed ancestry from the same royal line as the Tyrells, and if the Tyrells were ever deposed, it would be easy for Alester Florent to step into Mace Tyrell’s velvet slippers as Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, and High Marshal of the Reach. 

Jon Arryn shrugged his broad shoulders. “Let us hope Mace Tyrell doesn’t see it this way.”

“If not him, then his infernal mother.”

“Then thank the gods that the Lady Olenna is in Highgarden.”

_Perhaps the only good thing the gods have given me,_ Stannis thought. “Lord Alester is the father of my wife. He will remain where he is. Remove one of Robert’s drinking companions from the high table and put Mace Tyrell there instead.”

“There is a place on your right, Lord Stannis,” the Hand said. “You want to occupy it with a smuggler?”

“You want me to move the savior of Storm’s End to satisfy the pride of the man who almost starved Renly and me to death?” Stannis ground his teeth. “Move Ser Fell to the lower table. That is a command.”

“The king will be displeased,” Arryn warned.

“I will deal with him.”

Stannis wanted nothing more than to cancel the wedding altogether. Surely one virgin Florent – not even the lord’s daughter, at that – was not worth all this trouble.


	2. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos arrives. Late.

The seas were rough in the aptly named Shipbreaker Bay, but Davos knew these waters like the back of his hand. He steered the ship confidently through the ocean, skillfully avoiding the sandbars, reefs, and dangerous tides. He had only had to touch the pouch holding his finger bones twice during the entire voyage. 

But an untimely yet not entirely unexpected squall had delayed him, and, instead of arriving five days before the wedding, he arrived with only two to spare.

As they sailed beneath the white cliffs of Storm’s End, Davos gave the wheel over to his eldest son, Dale, and stared up at the great castle. He had been here last in the dark of night, carrying his precious store of onions and salted fish, and had not fully realized how massive Storm’s End really was. The huge banner atop the drum tower was said to be almost fifty feet long, but it looked like a blade of grass atop the great grey castle.

They had to travel another four leagues south before the cliffs lowered to a pebbly-shored cove. The cove was already brimming with watercraft, including several Redwyne dromonds. Davos instinctively clutched his finger bones. 

He anchored the _Black Betha_ in the cove mouth, far away from the other warships. Davos’ increased peace of mind made up for the distance he, Allard, and Dale had to row.

They reached the shore swiftly, pulling the dinghy ashore so they could disembark. They were met moments later by two soldiers in Florent colors.

“Halt!” one soldier called. “Who goes there?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth, and my sons Dale and Allard,” Davos said. “We have come for Lord Stannis’ wedding.”

“Ser Davos?” the other sneered. “How do I know you’re not some Targaryen loyalist or commoner trying to sneak into m’lord’s wedding?”

“My father earned his knighthood at the Siege of Storm’s End,” Dale said angrily. “He is the only reason Lord Stannis was able to keep Storm’s End for His Grace.”

The Florent soldier lifted his pike threateningly. “Watch yourself, boy.”

“Let them go, Garrick,” said another soldier, approaching from the woods. “I don’t think peasants have heard of the Seaworths and I don’t think Targaryens would have the balls to pose as Stannis Baratheon’s bannerman.”

“If I _had_ to, I’d choose to impersonate Lord Stannis’ man. He would just hang me and be done,” Garrick argued. “Other lords might torture me–”

Davos merely pulled the glove off his left hand and showed them his shortened fingers. 

The Florent soldiers, now suitably convinced, led them to a nearby picket line and gave the Seaworths three steeds and a four-man escort for the ride up to Storm’s End. It was completely dark by the time they came to the camp surrounding the castle, but the night was alive with a thousand cook fires, each with a different banner over them. Most of them were Baratheon liege lords, but some were from the Reach – the Redwynes and Tyrells had an especially strong presence – and Davos even saw the crabs of Celtigar and the seahorse of Velaryon. Torches illuminated the two flags flying from the battlements of Storm’s End: Florent and Baratheon. Davos had heard the king himself would be in attendance.

The Seaworths and their escorts made their way to the gates, where Davos learned they had been given rooms within the castle. He was surprised; that right was reserved for high lords and their families. He gave the horses back to the Florents and led his boys to the kitchen, where they received a cold dinner from the leftovers of the feast that night.

Their quarters were in the great drum tower. The room, while modest by the nobility’s standard, was bigger than the house he had been born in.

Davos had barely taken his boots off when there was a knock at the door. Davos answered it and found a servant in Baratheon colors.

“Ser Davos, Lord Stannis seeks an audience with you,” the servant said.

“I would be pleased attend my lord,” Davos said. He motioned for his sons to stay in the room and followed the servant up several levels. Somehow, Davos knew which door to stop at. He could almost hear Stannis’ teeth grinding behind it.

“Ser Davos, of House Seaworth, my lord,” the servant said. 

“He can see himself in.”

The servant bowed to Davos and quickly departed. Davos gathered Stannis must be in one of his ill moods. He opened the door and entered a room utterly unsuited for the man it contained. Myrish carpets lined the floors and silken drapes covered the walls. Instead of being grey, like the stone in the walls, the room was a seething mass of gold, dark red, evergreen, and deep blue. Stannis was sitting in a high-backed mahogany chair, staring out the only window in the entire room. Davos could only see a tuft of his black hair peeking out over the top. 

“You are late, Ser Davos,” Stannis complained.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Davos said. “The seas were rough. It is not called Shipbreaker Bay for naught.”

“You braved the seas in time to save Storm’s End, but not in time to attend my marriage.”

“I have arrived a day before your marriage, my lord.”

“Yes, you have.” Stannis rose out of his chair in one fluid motion. “And there might be one person here whom I can tolerate.”

“I am honored, my lord.”

Stannis took a sip from the goblet sitting near his chair. He appeared irritated. “Honored … there is something I hear little from anyone. When I was at court last month, I told Robert Dragonstone was secure and he had nothing to fear from a Targaryen uprising there. He merely nodded and honored me with this marriage. Robert has generously granted me the lord’s chamber for the bedding, so I will be taking my wife’s maidenhead in a bed I will never again use.”

“Dragonstone is yours, my lord,” Davos said fairly. “You took it, you gave it a new name, you harvest its incomes, and your sons will keep it forever.”

“Dragonstone is my disgrace in Robert’s eyes,” Stannis said. “He never forgave me for letting Darry slip away with Aerys’ children. Instead, he landed me on a rock where he would never need to see me – he had the marriage here because he didn’t want to travel out to Dragonstone. As for incomes, only three of my vassals are wealthy enough to make this journey – you, Celtigar, and Velaryon.” 

“Robert won the war and ensured you lived long enough to see your marriage.”

That seemed to quiet Stannis for a moment. “That is true.” He took another sip of wine. “I believe I owe my life more to you than to my elder brother. Had it not been for you and your cargo of onions, I would not have lived long enough to see Robert’s victory.”

“The gods were watching me that night, my lord,” said Davos, touching the pouch around his neck. “As they were watching you.”

“I doubt it. Everyone has always watched Robert.” 

“Maybe for that one night they were watching you.” 

“I’m sure it entertained them to watch me wonder when I would become hungry enough to eat my dead comrades,” Stannis said, but Davos could tell he was pleased. 

“Maester Cressen wanted me to pass on his congratulations on your betrothal,” Davos said. “He says he imagines Dragonstone will be much less empty now with the Lady Selyse.”

“The old man would rejoice if I brought home so much as a dog,” Stannis said. “What else has happened at Dragonstone since I was away?”

Davos dutifully recounted what little he had to offer. Stannis was right in one respect: Dragonstone and its levies were nothing if not peaceful. The most dangerous thing in that corner of Westeros was Dragonmount, the sluggish volcano situated on the same island as Dragonstone.

“Surely you have heard all of this before, my lord,” Davos said in conclusion. “Why do you want to hear it again?”

“Because it pleases me.” He ground his teeth for a moment. “Go away, Ser Davos. You are too exhausted to make pleasant company.”

Davos bowed and departed his lord. He left with the impression that Stannis was in better spirits than he had been before Davos’ arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forget Balon Greyjoy. Stannis is the real Salt King of Westeros.


	3. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marriage day arrives.

Stannis awoke to the sound of rain drumming against the stone walls of the keep. Truth be told, it was more of a dull drizzle; the least of the furies Shipbreaker Bay could send against the castle. By midday, the rains gave way to fog, and a Florent soldier accidentally walked off the battlements. Lord Alester, an old and proud man, was quick to blame it on Mace Tyrell’s catspaw. Stannis let the Hand sort out the altercation. Stannis himself had enough to worry about.

He spent his day in his room and ate nothing, staring out at the fog rolling over the grey sea. Stannis had never deluded himself into thinking he would marry for love – marriage was a duty, not a privilege – and never thought he would be this troubled on his wedding day.

After today, he would need to get his wife with child and entrust his household to her, and a hundred other things he was unprepared for. This was mostly because he had never met her and had no idea of her temperament. Her uncle, Lord Alester, assured him that Selyse was a sweet, pretty, pious, and honest girl with an open heart made for mothering, but that was what all lords said when they hawked their women. Stannis imagined only the worst: that she was a lack wit, or a silly romantic, or a slattern who spread her legs for any man who came her way.

Davos had a good wife, Stannis thought. From what he had heard, Marya Seaworth tended his lands on Cape Wrath dutifully and gave him a son every few years. Stannis wished he could have chosen his own wife – not for love or anything like that, but for admirable traits such as honesty, obedience, effectiveness, and intelligence. He was the king’s brother, the victor of the Siege of Storm’s End, the Master of Ships, and Lord of Dragonstone. He could have had the pick of Westeros. Instead, he had to pray his wife was not insane or overly biddable or worse.

At noon, Stannis’ thoughts were interrupted by a pounding at the door and a loud, “Get up, Stannis! Your days of using your hand are over!”

_The Dothraki think a death during a wedding blesses the couple,_ Stannis thought as he dressed. _Were that Robert was that death._

He dressed more richly than his wont, in a black velvet doublet with an uncrowned stag embroidered on the breast, and polished black boots. The doublet’s collar was tighter than a noose.

Stannis was surprised to find Ser Davos standing outside his quarters. Davos looked as uncomfortable as Stannis felt. Unlike most that rose from Flea Bottom, Davos did not bedeck himself in the finest fabrics and jewels his income allowed. He dressed practically, as if he needed to brave the worst weather the sea had for him at any moment. Stannis liked him for it.

“Come to give me away, ser?” Stannis asked sarcastically 

“Come to get away, perhaps,” Davos said. “The Tyrells and the Florents are at each other’s throats, and the comments Robert is making about your wife-to-be are not helping. Jon Arryn is barely keeping order.”

“Then let us join this mummery.”

The smuggler and the lord walked down to Storm’s End’s sept together. When they arrived, Davos bowed his head and slipped through the door. Now bereft of friendly faces, Stannis surveyed the rest of the crowd assembled without. They were all Florents.

Lord Alester made his way over to him. “I am honored to have gained you as a goodson, Lord Stannis. I assure you this marriage will be profitable … for both our houses.” He beckoned one of the Florent ladies closer. “This is my brother Ryam’s daughter, Selyse.”

The first thing Stannis noticed was that Selyse was tall, almost as tall as he was. She was also thin, with narrow hips, which did not bode well for childbirth. Selyse possessed the characteristic Florent ears, and they stuck out from her sharp face like seashells. Her eyes were paler blue than his. Curiously, her upper lip was bright red.

“It will fade, my lord,” Lord Alester assured him. “She … ah … hit herself this morning when fitting into her dress.”

 Stannis said nothing. As far as he knew, no diseases manifested themselves solely with a red lip. He would not have cared if she had a wen the size of a dinner plate across her face as long as she had a head on her shoulders and gave him sons. It was a pity Davos had not been born a woman. Stannis could tolerate him.

 The doors to the sept opened. Stannis grabbed the Florent girl’s hand and all but dragged her up the aisle. He heard Robert call something inappropriate and ignored him. The king of Westeros should have acted with more decorum.

 Storm’s End had a pleasant sept, as far as septs went. It was a large semicircle, with the seven gods arrayed evenly around the room, each with their own raised daises for candles, offerings, and other such things. The Father stood in the center of the room, directly across from the door. The Father had a dais just large enough to hold three bodies comfortably, especially since Septon Osgar was small and frail.

 Stannis had been to several weddings – it seemed everyone had one after Robert’s Rebellion was over – and he knew what was required of him, which was thankfully very little other than lighting a few candles and offering lip service to the gods. There were hymns – which he did not join in – and group prayers – which he mouthed the words to. The only thing he paid attention to was the vows. With each one, he felt his collar growing tighter and tighter.

 He and Selyse Florent faced each other again when it was time for the cloaks. The red mark on her upper lip had vanished, but her anxiety had obviously not. She was shaking badly as her uncle removed her fox fur cloak. Someone shoved a golden cloak into Stannis’ arms. He found the end with the clasp on it and draped it over Selyse’s thin shoulders.

 The worst was yet to come. Selyse smoothed her skirts nervously. “W-With this kiss, I p-pledge my love, and t-t-take you for my l-lord and husband.”

 “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife,” Stannis replied. Her pale blue eyes grew huge and she closed her eyes and leaned forward slightly, like a reed bending in the wind. Stannis had no desire to kiss this woman – this child, really – but he had to do his–

 He felt a blow on the back of his head and nearly fell on Selyse. The girl shrieked and backpedaled rapidly. She tripped on her skirts and fell off the edge of the dais. Stannis caught himself from falling just in time. He turned around and glared at his older brother.

 All the guests were laughing at him, Robert leading them. He was bent nearly double, his face bright red with mirth. Stannis looked towards his bride and noted that one of Davos’ sons appeared to have caught her before she cracked her head open on the floor. She was now safely in her uncle’s arms, blinking bewilderedly at the other nobles.

 “I’m sorry, Stannis,” he heard Robert say. “But it was taking too long and I’m thirsty!” The nobles roared in agreement and stampeded out of the sept. Within moments, it was only him, Lord Alester, Selyse, Davos, Davos’ sons, and Septon Osgar.

 “Here in the sight of gods and men,” the septon said. “I do solemnly proclaim Stannis of House Baratheon and Selyse of House Florent to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them.”

 His words echoed strangely around the empty sept. Selyse wiped away her tears and went to the Maiden’s alter. Her uncle helped her light a candle. Davos quietly told his sons they could go ahead of him.

 “That was not meet,” Davos said. “Especially in front of the gods.”

 “Since when did Robert care about the gods?” Stannis asked. “He thinks he is one.” Selyse was still praying and lighting another damned candle. “Come along, Ser Davos. I’ll be damned if I let my brother drink me under the table at my own wedding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Selyse's lip is red because she waxed her mustache off mere seconds before the wedding.)


End file.
